Don't Ask Don't Tell
by Julnick
"You've been a naughty boy," she said.
He stared at her, bemused, one eyebrow raised, his head cocked to one side.
She crooked one red enameled fingernail at him. "Come now, over my lap. Its time to take your punishment."
He continued to stare at her unmoving. His face now registering open contempt and amusement.
"What's the matter, little boy? Think I can't handle you?"
He smirked, naked challenge in his expression.
She smiled slightly, confidently. "Perhaps you prefer the court martial option," she said reasonably.
Now he paled, the smirk dropping, instantly replaced by a flush of rage.
Her mouth quirked. "What are you doing to do, tough boy? You going to beat me up too?"
His jaw tightened, the muscles quivering under the skin, the anger simmering just below the silent surface.
"Don't ask, don't tell..." She mused, seeming almost to be speaking to herself. He gave her a tight smile, the lines of his body warring between contempt and rage. "So, did you you ask? Or did he tell?" She asked, smoothing the material of her uniform skirt. His lips twisted in a silent snarl and he ground his teeth, struggling to force a casual attitude, not allow her the satisfaction of getting to him. "So come now, stop being a silly little boy, and get over my lap for your spanking."
Tilting his head back, he visibly wrestled his temper back under control, and gazed at the woman, cooly assessing. She was small, almost ridiculously so next to his hulking mass. He tried to picture her taking him across her small thighs, and gave a silent huff of laughter. Sauntering forward casually, taking pains to show the effort he was extending to humor her little game, he began to bend over her lap.
"Uh uh uh," she stopped him with a strong hand on his bicep. "Bare that naughty bottom, my boy." His mask of indifference slipped once more as he turned his head slowly to stare at her. "What's the matter?" She asked with that cool confidence that was so getting under his skin. "Something down there you're ashamed of?" She cocked her head and fixed him with a look that made it very clear she had no doubt of her ability to get his obedience. It grated on him, but he found himself cooperating. His face scarlet with rage, he rose, setting his jaw, he stared into her eyes as he undid his belt, then unbuttoned his fatigue pants. His eyes narrowing, his gaze intense with challenge and rebellion, he shoved them down, and hooked his thumbs into his briefs. She patted her leg. "Over you go, naughty boy." He favored her with a slight, humorless smile and glare. Refusing to show shame in front of her, he made no effort to cover himself as he slowly bent and lowered his upper body onto her thighs. He was surprised to find himself well supported. She was deceptively strong for her small size.
He set his hands on the cool concrete floor, allowing the weight of his upper body to sink into his shoulders. His muscles were tense, his body language speaking rebellion with every fiber. He kept his eyes straight ahead, focused on a spot on the floor. His breathing was slow and controlled, his expression, dark.
"Mmm," she murmured, being sure he could hear her clearly as she rubbed her palm over his ass. "I think this one's going to be a hard case..." She smiled. And slapped the muscular buttock in front of her. He showed no reaction but to grit his teeth tighter, and intensify his glare as if trying to burn through the cement with his eyes. She slapped again, and again, making a full circuit. Then another. "Very nice," she said, with another smile, her voice carrying only the faintest hint of condescension. "Pink is a very good color on you."
His jaw tightened further, his lips were pressed tightly, and his breath was coming faster in his chest. The slaps continued, sometimes in recognizable patterns, sometimes random, sometimes focusing on a particular area until it stung and burned, other times falling in scattered patterns like stinging raindrops. His ass was a uniform dark pink, but he had still shown no significant reaction. She paused for a moment, stroking his heated skin. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, letting the air out slowly before opening his eyes again.
"Are you enjoying your spanking, naughty boy?"
He ground his teeth. "Fuck off."
She smiled with satisfaction. "Why lookie there, doggie learned a new trick. Speak doggie. Speak." Her tone took on a hard edge by the end of the little barb. There was a long moment of silence, then abruptly, he pushed himself up and tried to rise.
With a speed that shocked him, her hand flew out to the small table and came back with a short rubber strap. The dense rubber slapped across his buttocks with a crack, and a pain unlikely anything he'd ever experienced exploded in his mind. Taken by surprise, and unprepared for the pain, he yelped and twisted away from her.
"Ohh, that hurts, doesn't it?" She said cheerfully. It cracked again, just at the line where his legs met his ass. This time, he was bracing for it, but the pain was mind-numbing, he grunted, muscles flexing. "Yess, I remember this one. It is a nasty little bugger, isn't it, naughty doggy?"
"Fuck you, bitch," he growled, or tried to, it came out as more of a hiss between clenched teeth, revealing much more than he wanted how badly she was hurting him.
CRACK CRACK
"Ahngg!"
"Aw, what's the matter? Big, tough marine can't handle a measly little spanking?"
He glared at the floor, grinding his teeth and trying to slow his ragged breathing, her tone was like fingernails on a chalkboard, her taunting rang in his ears, a personal affront. But he kept silent.
After a long moment she spoke, this time her tone was cold and hard. "You learn fast. You're not as dumb as you look, Rambo..."
He laid still, tense and quiet, waiting for her to make the next move in the twisted game.
She smiled. He felt her weight shift as she turned and exchanged the strap for a flat, wooden spoon.
Smack.
No reaction.
More smacks. Red ovals mingled with the scarlet silhouettes of the strap. Like the patter of heavy raindrops, the light cracking sound of the spoon on upturned cheeks and thighs filled the room for several minutes. Smacks on the crowns of the now very red cheeks, smacks on the undersides of each cheek, smacks down onto the upper part of the well defined thighs.
The spoon found a tender spot between ass and thigh which had been revisited again and again by both strap and spoon. Finally, it was too much, as the wood bit once more, he jumped.
"Ohh, did we just see a flinch?" She flicked the spoon at the offended area again. He tensed, trying to hide his reaction, but his body betrayed him, his muscles tightening, jerking hard away from the assault. "Aww, don't fight it, sweetcheeks. I know it hurts your little bottom. Its ok to show it." The spoon continued to plaster that tender area at the top of his legs. The pain was becoming too much, with her constant prodding, cutting at him with her taunting, knowing that if he left, he'd face the traditional disciplinary route of court martial, probably time in the stockade and dishonorable discharge with a criminal record for the rest of his civilian life. It was too much. He bent and flexed his fingers, his nails scraping against the floor, his jaw aching.
She made another circuit on his buttocks and thighs, then another two smacks to the tender undersides of his cheeks. This time the flinching was pronounced. "That's better," she cooed, smacking mercilessly. "Doesn't it feel good to just be honest about it?" Smack. Smack. Smack.
He flinched and winced, dropping his head to hide the grimace of pain. "Aww, how cute, he's shy." She gave a particularly hard swat, making his body tense. "What do you say we give the spoon another five minutes..." His head jerked up, before he could catch himself and suppress the response. Seeing his reaction, she smiled, and increased the force. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. "Then we can play with a new toy." She watched the slight tilt of his head as his eyes turned to the table where her "tools of the trade" were displayed. She smiled again. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
Beads of moisture were forming along his hairline and sweat was dampening his cotton T-shirt. His jaw was clenched now against the pain rather than rage. His muscles tensed and knotted under his skin. His head was bowed, and his eyes were closed tightly.
"Ohhh, I bet that really smarts, doesn't it, naughty boy?" SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. He was silent, grimacing. "Must be tough on you. Poor boy, down there, all big and strong, knowing you could walk out of here any time..." SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. "I couldn't stop you, its just big ol' you and little tiny me..." SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. "Yet, here you lie, getting your naughty fanny spanked like a naughty little boy over his mommy's knee."
He hissed softly, his breathing getting more ragged with pain and impotent rage.
"Ding ding, time's up. What shall we use next?"
He took deep gasping breaths, swallowing hard and working the tension out of his jaw. His eyes moved to the table just in time to see her pick up a heavy, wooden hairbrush. She patted it gently against his ass. He stiffened, bracing himself.
"Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "this should sting like the blazes."
CRACK!
Shock and pain startled a choked cry from his throat.
She smiled. "I thought you'd like it."
The brush peppered his scarlet backside, feeling like a bed of nails being pounded into his flesh. He jumped, squirmed, bit his lip, grabbed the rungs of the chair in a death grip. Soon, he could no longer hold back strangled cries, curses, and sincere pleas of "oh God" along with a healthy sprinkling of "ow"s and "ouch"s, all delivered through tightly clenched teeth.
Her smile took on an air of determination and she focused her assault on the sensitive undersides of his ass cheeks. Bringing the brush down, over and over again.
She quickly found him moaning and squirming. His struggles grew more sincere, and more desperate as she increased the speed and the intensity of the spanking. When his struggles reached a climax, he spoke the first non-explective she'd heard from him yet that day.
"Please..." He spat out the word with loathing of the desperation that forced him to such a level he would ask for reprieve. Especially from a woman. Especially from a spanking.
She stopped, smiling at the back of his head. "Yes?" She feigned innocence, as he panted, struggling to gain control of his screaming nerve endings.
His anger stirred, but pain and exhaustion pressed stronger, and he played along. "Please... Stop..." He whispered, forcing the anger down.
"Stop? What a silly little boy. Why, if I stop, you won't learn your lesson, now will you?"
"Yes!" He said more quickly than he would have liked, his teeth clenched against an overwhelming urge to curse. "Yes... I've learned my lesson."
"What have you learned?"
He blinked, unprepared for that question, and fell silent. He searched his brain for the answer she would be looking for, but the throbbing in his ass was distracting, and her little mindfuck had gotten to him more than he'd thought, he couldn't organize his thoughts.
"Nothing?" She inquired.
"I..." He felt uncertain, vulnerable and exhausted.
"In that case, perhaps its time to step things up a notch. Don't you think so, naughty boy?"
He felt a stir of panic in his gut. Part of his mind balked at a woman having the power to spook him, but she'd gotten into his head, and he couldn't clear his thoughts. He only managed to mumble a weak, confused protest as she pulled him to his feet. He tried to stoke his anger, but he was too tired, too disoriented, his ass was too sore.
"Up you go, on your feet. You do know which end that is, don't you?"
The jab didn't phase him as he stumbled back, dizzy and off balance with his fatigues effectively hobbling him. Putting her hand firmly on his upper arm, she lead him to a long, high table. Standing him at one end, she had police handcuffs on his wrists before he shook out of his stupor enough to resist.
Realizing that he was now hobbled and handcuffed was enough to cut through the fog, and he shook his head violently. "What the fuck..."
She only smiled, and grabbed the handcuff chain. The table hit him in the thighs, just below the hips. She pulled him forward, and the table caught his legs, landing his upper body heavily on the sturdy top. He gasped, slightly winded by the fall. While he was stunned, she clipped a padlock closed, connecting the handcuffs to another chain which was bolted into the cement floor.
He pulled, testing the restraints and snarled. "What do you want from me?"
She made a show of thinking about his question, the looked him in the eyes. "Not sure. I'll let you know when I find it."
The cobwebs had cleared from his brain, and he jerked hard against the chains. "Fuck you bitch, let me go. I played your fucking game. Let me go. NOW!"
She just looked at him, expressionless. He fought wildly against the restraints, the cuffs biting mercilessly into his wrists. His eyes were filled with hate, rage and pain, and behind all that, a flicker of primal fear. The look of a wounded animal.
Out of his line of sight, she picked up her next tool. Stepping in front of him once more, she bent a thin, whippy cane into a crescent, before letting it snap straight again.
His eyes went wide, and his gut felt like ice water. He began to shake his head. "No... No, please..."
Once again, she feigned innocence. "Please, what?" She asked, eyes wide.
Fear and pride warred for control of his mouth. Haltingly, he forced the words out. "Please... Don't cane me..."
"You don't want a caning?"
He shook his head emphatically, his eyes bright and pleading.
Her lips twisted almost imperceptibly. "Say it properly. I... don't... want..."
His tongue flicked over his dry lips. She watched the decision being made behind his eyes. Finally, he spoke, his voice flat. "I don't want."
She smiled, a triumph. "You to cane..."
"You to cane."
Her eyes hardened. "My naughty, little bottom." She drew the words out, savoring the challenge. Her stare was unwavering as she waited for his obedience. If she doubted her control over him, she gave no sign of it.
As she fed him the final phrase, his stare turned cold, and his jaw closed so hard she could hear his teeth click together. For a long moment, they stared each other down. Then finally, without warning, "my naughty, little bottom." He repeated it without a flicker of expression on his face or in his voice.
She nodded, eyes gleaming. "Very good, my little toy soldier. Now, put it all together."
He paused for several seconds, then he spoke, slowly, deliberately. The words lacked normal flow, stresses, pauses. The statement was flat and mechanical. "I don't want you to cane my naughty little bottom." His expression was empty, his eyes vacant.
She lowered her eyes and cocked her head in contemplation. She remained motionless for several minutes. He just stared at her, feeling the emotionless cloak he'd managed to pull over himself begin to slip. His lips pressed together lightly, his eyebrows tightened towards a scowl, only enough that he could feel the tension in the muscles, not yet anything she could see, but it would be soon, he knew.
Finally, she looked at him. Her eyes were cold and angry, her voice hard, all traces of teasing were gone from her demeanor. "I don't think Corporal Parker wanted you to crack his skull with a baseball bat, either. But, that didn't stop you, did it? Sometimes, we don't get what we want in life."
Neither of them moved, then his eyes went wide, he took a deep breath through his nose, and threw his head against his arms screaming through clenched teeth and thrashing against the restraints, tearing more skin away from his wrists.
"Alright! ALRIGHT! I'm SORRY! Is that what you want? I'm sorry for hitting the goddamn faggot! But he doesn't belong here, if he'd 'uve stayed in that fucking fag town he came from he wouldn't 'ave gotten hurt. I'm sorry he didn't have the fucking brains to stay where he belonged. Alright? I'm sorry the little shit stuck his head in front of my bat! OK? That what you want? You sick cunt, you fucking sick bitch! AHHH!"
He gasped, sucking in air as if he'd been drowning. "Oh my god," he said weakly, tears filling his eyes as the branding iron stripe of agony slowly faded to a dull throbbing ache.
"What a filthy mouth for such a little boy," she said calmly, laying another stripe below the first.
He howled and bucked. "Ow! Oh god, ohmygod..." He scrabbled for a grasp on the chains.
Another stripe.
He screamed, thrashing, rocking from side to side. "Oh my god oh my god. Please!" The tears were trickling down his face now, and his sinuses hurt.
"That's a little more like it, little boy. I don't like listening to filth from my boys' mouths. Do you hear me?" Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish.
He could only nod through his own choking screams. The four new stripes, laid down one after the other made his ass feel as if he was sitting on a hot grill. His hands pulled at the cuffs, instinctively trying to reach back.
"Much better. Now, shall we talk like civilized people?"
He nodded again, his throat still too tight with pain to be trusted with his voice. His tears were soaking the surface of the table and the smell of damp wood began to fill his nostrils.
She tapped the cane lightly against his striped ass, watching his body shudder. "Don't ask, don't tell policy. How did you come to the conclusion Parker was gay? Did someone violate that policy, marine?"
He shook his head negative, sniffling, and shifting his arms in the cuffs. "Found a picture." His voice was thick with tears and hoarse from screaming. "Taped in his journal. Him kissing some guy, some kind of homo wedding."
Swish, thwack. The weal crossed several of the previous ones.
He howled and sobbed something incoherent. He was trying to cooperate...
She waited, the tip of the cane resting against his skin. "How was this discovered if it was in his personal journal? Did he leave it out somewhere?"
Beaten and exhausted, he lay, sobbing softly. "No... Footlocker..."
"Locked?"
Nod. His body shook with gentle, silent sobs.
"Why did you pick the lock?"
Sniffling. "Cash"
"And you found the picture." He nodded. "How many others with you?"
He hesitated, his chest beginning to shake with new sobs. She pulled the cane back.
"Three! Three!"
Tap, tap, tap. Each time it touched his welted backside, he flinched.
"Names."
He began to shake. "I can't. Please, please don't cane me any more, please it hurts so bad, oh god please, I can't give them up, please don't make me please..."
Swish thwack.
His screaming no longer sounded like that of a man, now they were more like the terrified howls of a child. Pain, humiliation, condescension, she had regressed him to a little boy.
"Names, little boy."
He hesitated, crying. "Martin, Burden... Martinez..." He lowered his head, pitiful, broken.
"Did you tell anyone else?"
He shook his head, "no".
She came around to face him again, taking his chin in her hand and raising his face. "Very good," she said, ruffling his hair with her other hand. He felt a surge of warmth at her praise. "Now, about that filthy mouth of yours... Open."
Confused, and still dazed from the ordeal, he didn't comprehend her meaning. "What?"
"Your mouth, little boy. Open it."
Still in a haze, he looked at her, perplexed, but not defiant as he asked, "Why?"
Pressing her lips together, she picked up the cane, and walked behind him. The fog cleared and he cried, "NO! No! I'll do it! I'm sorry!" But the now all-too-familiar swish heralded another scalding brand.
He howled, writhing, new tears streaming down his face. She came back to his face. "Open wide," she said, and this time he didn't ask any questions.
She took a bar of hotel, courtesy soap and laid it on his tongue. He grimaced and started to pull back, but she grabbed his chin firmly. "You keep that in your mouth, naughty boy. Every time you spit it out, you add five strokes to your caning." Tears flowing freely, he gingerly bit down.
Ten more strokes brought up stinging welts on his ass and thighs. He screamed and cried throughout, but never dropped the soap. As she came back to face him, he was making strangled howling sounds. Tears, snot, and saliva had mixed with soap suds and slicked his chin, chest and arms. Between his wild, terrified eyes, and the foaming drool, he almost looked like a rabid animal. She was unsympathetic.
She held a paper cup under his mouth and ordered him to spit. He spat, sputtered and coughed until he was nearly hyperventilating. She grabbed his hair with one hand and covered his mouth and nose with her other hand until his gasps slowed and deepened.
He had no energy left, and simply let his head fall on his arms, only half listening as she spoke into some sort of walkie talkie.
"Make the copies... Good... Send them in..."
As the door opened, he managed to raise his head enough to see an MP. The MP acted as if seeing half naked men with stripes on their asses chained to tables was a normal occurrence. She noticed his embarrassment, and smiled, giving a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry about him, he's quite familiar with these situations."
She accepted two legal sized manila envelopes from the MP, who then went back out of the room, closing the door.
From one envelope, she extracted a sheaf of 8x10 photographs. She shuffled through them, making small appreciative noises over them. "That Herrich is such a professional. Don't you think so?" She turned one of the prints so he could see it. His face went white. "Oh, don't be so shy, you're really very photogenic. I was afraid they wouldn't be able to get me color ones. I'm glad they did, see how well it picks up the red in your ass?"
He was beyond anger, beyond crying, he just stared at the photographs. A pictorial representation of the progression of his disgrace as a marine and as a man.
"Perhaps still-lifes aren't your cup of tea," she was saying, he tore his gaze from the photograph to watch her slip a disk into her laptop. The screen lit up, a shot of the room. An aerial view. He immediate turned to find the camera, but saw nothing but wall. He looked back at her, to find her holding a tiny camera eye between her thumb and forefinger. She smiled coyly. "Fiber optics."
His eyes were drawn back to the video, she sitting, crooking her finger, he lowering his pants, lying across her lap. He felt nauseous. Finally, he lowered his eyes.
She clicked the video off, and extracted the the disk. Then she tossed the second envelope onto the table next to his face. "Random checks for a period of time to be decided by the military disciplinary committee. You will present these," she motioned toward the envelope, "at each check. Failure to produce the pictures and video will result in immediate dissemination of all evidence of this meeting." Red fingernails traced his cheek, then her fingers gripped his chin firmly, pulling his face up until his eyes met hers. "Now tell me, little boy. How's it feel to have a secret?"
--
Julnick